


By Starlight

by Annabel_Lioncourt



Category: Alien, Alien: Covenant, Alien: Isolation (Video Game), Defy the Stars - Claudia Gray
Genre: Aliens, Angst, Don't get too excited the Defy The Stars guys make a small cameo later on that's it, Eventual Fluff, F/M, I'll add tags as needed, Robots, Romance, and sexual references, but wow it took THIS LONG for a tag to appear for them, its rated from the start for language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-12-31 19:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12139248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabel_Lioncourt/pseuds/Annabel_Lioncourt
Summary: HIATUS until further notice. Leaving it up for ref; but until its edited, it won't fit into my AU series.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It would be really motivational to hear comments from you guys; I know it's a rarepair but I'd still like to hear from anyone, especially new people to the ship.

May, 2138

           For the first four months of their relationship, they never fought. The largest disagreement they had ever had was whether they were going to make Friday night or Saturday day their weekly date out. Amanda preferred Saturday afternoon, Samuels wanted to go out with the her Friday nights like most of the other couples, but her coworkers who were slowly becoming her friends normally went out on Friday nights. The disagreement was settled with him conceding to her because he believed she would benefit from socializing, from interacting with people her age, from interacting with…humans.

           Of course that came up quite often, the question of whether or not she was mentally recovering; if she was getting out of the apartment enough, putting herself out there. It had caused a strange pain in him that was new to him (all of it was new, every feeling, and it was so amazing, how many kinds of pain there were) to have to sit in silent compliance during her doctor’s visits, as if he was merely her personal Synthetic. As if he was indifferent to her health (as if he could be indifferent to anything at this point?).

           She had another visit earlier in the afternoon, and he had stood there in the corner again, dutifully recording every instruction the doctor gave her that she would never remember to keep on her own. Keep to a routine, get enough sleep, but not more than nine hours, get out of the house, eat well, drink enough water, cut back on alcohol. Medications were gone over, for sleep, for anxiety, for radiation damage repair, for migraines, for—

            “Oh, yeah, I don’t need that one anymore,” Amanda replied when the nurse had named the final drug in the list.

             “If I were you I would stay on the current dose. Some of your current symptoms may include risky behavior,”

            “Trust me, after the shit I’ve seen I’m not going to be involved with anyone, at all like that. And I’d feel better taking one less—what is there already eight?”

            “Seven,” the nurse replied. “I can’t force you to take it, but for your system’s sake I suggest finishing the current prescription you have before going off it.” Amanda nodded, and listened through the rest of the instructions, as silent as her companion.

            They pick up her medications on the way out, and walk home from the city center to their apartment building. They say hello to the young couple that just moved in on the first floor—younger, even than Amanda, and that occurs to him, that outsiders see him as quite older than her—and enter the lift to the 10th floor, room 1012, the second to last room on the floor.

            It was a grand step above her old economy flat; the insurance pay-out from Weyland-Yutani had purchased it outright, and the investment seemed smart enough at the time. Real estate on Luna was only getting more expensive, what was once the cheapest off-world place to live for young enterprising star-dreamers and space-bound engineers had become a thriving mechanical; gleaming with new technology, a playground for innovations, a Silicon Valley in the sky. The only downside of the purchase was that it diminished her account enough that she would still have to work to cover utilities and daily expenses.

             Nothing could have suited them better; walking into the flat you’d enter into an open living room and kitchen, large windows open over the street, and another over the kitchen sink. A bar-style counter separated the two rooms, with barstools on either side so it could be used as a table. To the left of the entrance was a short hallway, with doors to a closet and shower on one side, and the door to their bedroom on the other. A shorter hallway went past the kitchen on the right side of the entryway, with a spare bedroom turned workshop to one side, a washroom and a water closet on the other side. It was enough space that Amanda’s newfound claustrophobia would set in, but it wasn’t so much space that she felt like unseen eyes were constantly at her back, watching her moves, preparing to kill.

             Amanda kicked her boots off at the door, tossed her bag of medications on the bar, and shrugged off her aviator jacket.

            “I hate everyone in that fucking place, “ she said, not really to herself, and not really to Samuels.

           “They’re trying to get you well again,” Samuels said. She complained to him often about the array of pills, about him forcing her to go outside at least once a day, about his limiting of her caffeine intake. He was programmed with the patience needed to break a drug addict; he was more than capable of handling her protests.

          “I know, I know,” she flopped on the couch. She only had one day off this week, and most of it had been spent in various doctors’ offices, talking to therapists and psychiatrists and radiology experts, getting poked and prodded. “I’m sorry I’m not feeling up to going out tonight.”

           “I expected as much, no matter. I can cook tonight,” he smiled at her, genuinely unconcerned that their plans had changed.

          “Honey, you don’t have to,”

          He knew that she was exhausted, mentally if not physically, because she rarely fell into using pet names before her second drink. “Amanda, no one taking all of these should be skipping meals—or not drinking water,” he took out the little prescription bottles and put them in the medicine cabinet.

           “Alright, fine. Order something, or I’ll order something,” Amanda reached for the comm device, and started typing in a list of take-out food unhealthy enough that he’d regret making her eat. “Do you feel like eating anything tonight?”

           “If it gets any colder I’ll make myself tea or a coffee. I’m fine though…thank you.” Until he started staying with her, no one had ever regularly offered him food, or gave notice to the fact that he might not _want_ it when offered. From the day she brought him home, she continued to treat him as human as he’d witnessed her treat everyone else. “Amy?”

          “Yeah?” she straightened up, ‘Amy’ wasn’t something he usually called her. “Is everything okay?”

           “What medication did you tell them you didn’t need?” he sounds worried, she thinks, or maybe he’s planning on giving her a lecture about listening to her doctor. Either way, she’s relieved that that’s all that’s wrong.

           “The pill; you know, birth control. I never really needed it to for cramps or anything, only…um, practical reasons,” she hit ‘send’ on the order typed out on her device, and set it back down. “And one less drug in me makes me feel a little less like an invalid old woman.”

            There was no reply from him, no acknowledgement, and she looked up. He had a distant look in his eyes, looking out the kitchen window at the rain.

             “Hey, Chris?” her voice was gentle, affectionate “The idea is, if I’m only sleeping with you I don’t need it. Unless there’s some possibility of a _Demon Spawn_ -style miracle infant,”

             “ _Demon Spawn_?” the words shake him from his reverie, and he gives a rueful laugh.

             “It’s an old horror novel, about this old AI program—“

             “I know what it is. There was a film too.” Amanda cringes; she read the book during her vintage scifi phase, and still remembered a few images from it she’d rather not seen on a screen. At the idea that he had seen it though… how many of those old AI stories were about amoral and cruel machinery?

           “Sit with me,” she said kindly, and when he didn’t move she called for him again. “Chris, come on. It’s cold and gross outside, and you’re warm.” He hesitated, but allowed himself over, taking off his boots, placing them by the door beside hers, and shrugging off his jacket, which he hung in the closet, before taking his place beside her. Amanda sat up against him; he radiated heat like a desktop computer.

             “At least I’m good for something,”

             “You’re good for a lot of things,” she smiled at him, that warm and reassuring expression she always did when reality started to hit him. Still, he was slow to hold her, slower to kiss her, and when she slid her hands under his sweater, he held her arms in place. “Sorry,” she said, and bit her lip. “Self control. I’m not good at it.”

            “What can I even offer you?” it caught her off guard.

            “Offer me?” at first she thought that he was talking about physical things, and she considered asking if he’d like her to run a hot bath for them, but his tone was off.

            “What are you getting from this?” his voice was detached.

            “At the moment?” she raised an eyebrow at him. “A really great endorphin high from how warm you are.”

            “I meant more in a general sense. What are you getting from having…relations with me, presumably long-term if you’re taking yourself off of contraceptives,” she held back the laugh that threatened to come out.

            “No shit this is long term. I’ve only ever done long term or no terms. And —“ she poked his chest, “—I am not willing to share you,” instead of grinning back at her with his deliriously happy, lovesick smile she had expected, he gently removed her arms from himself; he’d been morose before, but this was concerning. “Talk to me,” she said.

            “You can’t get married. I’m on the synthetic registration files at the company as your property,” he looked about the flat, anywhere but in her eyes, “It would be as absurd as requesting a marriage license for your microwave.” He heard it, her quick intake of breath in preparation for a rant. “Before you say anything else, you know I’m right,” it was programming leftover from his time working as a business executive, he stood up so that he was looking down at her. Authority. Subtle, but there; he was taller than her, and even after she followed suit he still had the advantage of height. “If you plan to never end this…this…” he shook his head “Your friends know what I am, you’ll never be able to so much as hold your lover’s hand in public. And—“

            “Shut up, will you?” she tried to open her arms to him, which so far had worked every time he had been upset, or worried. This time, he gave her a dismissive gesture. “What the hell?”

            “You can’t go on vacation, go to some on-planet place with water and sunlight. Every year I’ll get more and more out of date—“

            “And I’ll be getting older, at least you won’t be showing your age.” Giving it a try again, she tried to reach for his hand. Chris pulled it away from her.

             “…you can’t have children with me.”

She’s silent at this. She knew it of course, it had occurred to her before, but she didn’t think it would bother him.

            “I know. This is the first time I’ve slept with a man and didn’t have to worry about getting knocked up, I can’t see any downsides to that.”

            “I’m not talking about an _accident_ , Amanda. What if you ever wanted your own family? You haven’t had anyone since you were ten years old, and if you found a human, you’d have his family, himself, and any children that you would have. It would be a family that you could publically be seen with, live with, _be happy with_. Grandchildren, great-grandchildren…you’re denying yourself that life,”

            “Don’t be an idiot, I don’t want any of—“

            “You’re not much more than a child now, and you might change your mind. And what happens when you wake up and realize that—“

            “ _I WON’T!”_ as soon as she said it she covered her own mouth in shock at herself. She tried to breathe, tried to calm herself down.

            “You resent me for even making you consider the possibility.” He sounded like he was trying to prove a point—which was dangerous, if he found himself in the right, his programming wouldn’t let him consider a ‘wrong’ stance on a subject.

            “What the _fuck_ has gotten into you tonight?” it was Saturday, and whether it was mostly wasted on doctors’ visits or not, it was still date night. Even if they weren’t going out, she had thought the evening would end with pulling him into the bath with her, while his god-awful music played in the background.

            “I admit that I’ve thought about having this discussion with you before, but…I didn’t want to.” It was strange to him. Despite not being able to even indirectly harm a human, he had been able, out of his own _want_ , to put off something that was for her own good.

            “Then you shouldn’t have brought it up! It’s stupid, there’s no— _eeeergh!!!_ ” she groaned. Though she didn’t intend to threaten with harm, let alone actually throw a punch, she clenched and unclenched her fists. “So what? You want to convince me to throw you out because you don’t have the nerve to leave on your own?”

            “That’s not what I’m trying to do. One day your sense of logic, your _human_ heart will outweigh…. the value you currently put on mutual experiences, life debt, and lust, and you will want everything I can’t give you.” He sounds very sure of himself, but he’s very calm and monotone.

            “Samuels seriously what’s _wrong_ with— _you did_ not _say lust_.” Their doorbell rang and he answered it the door, Amanda’s rage on pause for a moment. They can’t have a building manager walking in on an obvious lovers’ quarrel, but it’s not a human, it’s a hovering bot, with her order-in hanging from its claw. He pulls out his wallet, and even from the other side of the room Amanda recognizes her picture from the Torrens crew records in the clear ID pocket. He had perfect memory of every second of her, and still carried that picture with him. The bot was satisfied with his card, and went on its way. Chris walked back to their kitchen, and set her bag of Chinese on the counter.

            “You were say—“

            “ _I WAS ABOUT TO ASK IF YOU THINK I’M ONLY FUCKING YOU BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE I OWE YOU!”_ he mildly taken aback.

            “I don’t think you’re _only_ involved in repeated sexual contact with me because of it, but I think that plays a role,”

            She shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re _insane_. What do you take me for? You think that I would let you live with me, and say—“ she has a hard enough time of telling him that she loves him on a good day, but right now, that wasn’t something she could only vaguely reference. “—And say the things to you that I do if _I didn’t actually mean it_?”

            “You’re a kindhearted woman, I don’t think you mean anything malicious by it, and maybe you don’t even realize—“

            “You honestly fucking think—and _why would I lie—_ “

            “ _I DIDN’T SAY THAT—_ “ Amanda jumped back with such fear that she tripped, and fell onto the floor, “Amy, I’m sorry I—“ his eyes had the same level of horror that hers did. Synths were not supposed to be able to express anger; the volume of his voice was reaching its limits, it echoed with digital reverb.

            “Don’t…” she pushed herself back up and he immediately moved to help her but she swatted him away. “ _Don’t touch me_.”

            Slowly, he stepped away from her. “Amy is that an order?”

            “ _Yes._ ” She was absolutely certain when she said it, and nearly glad at the look of agony on him. “I’m going to bed. Don’t follow me.”

 

01100011 01101100 01101111 01110011 01110101 01110010 01100101

 

           

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

She locked the door behind her, even though it wasn’t needed. Samuels, like all models made after 2121, was incapable of rejecting an order. Normally, the only time she gave him a direct command was when he asked her to: direct instructions were needed to get past some of the more rigid inhibitors when adventurous activities were at hand. The thought crossed her mind that she should feel guilty for forcing him away instead of asking him.

This was the first time since she met him that she had been bothered by his…inhumanity. When he shouted at her she could almost feel the Seegson droids’ hands around her neck…

 _What was I thinking anyway_? _He’s not even fucking real what have I been—No, no._ Not that either. She was angry, and as much as she hated it, she was scared. At work she would jump at turning on a power tool, or climate control coming on a little louder than usual—but hearing _that_ voice come out of someone she trusted her safety to? Damaged electrical voices raked against her ears in her sleep, nightmares of fire, weaponized monsters, and those _damn droids_ …. Meanwhile, the one— _the person_ —she had locked out was the one that she trusted to keep things like that away. Frightening her was a breach of their trust; she wouldn’t have been able to sleep with him beside her, watching her.

She took out her hair tie, undressed, and crawled under the ancient duvet, trying to figure if she’d feel safer facing the wall that the bed was up against, or facing the empty room. It was the first night since she stepped off the Torrens that she’d slept alone. Samuels had been welcome company from the start. Knowing that there was someone there that could immediately wake up stronger than three mortal men, and stand between here and whatever creature might have intrude had helped her to rest much easier. The nightmares still happened, and she’d still wake up screaming on occasion, but it was easier. The white noise of the processors in his chest helped too. Now, she searched through the drawer in the bedside table for her sleeping pills, taking the heaviest dose the bottle said was safe.

She didn’t lock him out only out of fear, but also pride; Amanda wasn’t about to apologize for anything that was said. _He’s insane if he really thinks…out of debt…_

Of course, that _was_ the exact reason she kept him in her room on the salvage ship home. If he had shown a want for physical contact she’d have willingly and gladly given anything he could ask for. Anything to show her gratitude; but all he wanted to do was sit in a chair at the foot of her bed, some kind of sentinel in case she woke up from a nightmare, or started to react badly to the array of drugs the ship’s medical officer put her on.

After an hour of shaking from the cold and the medications, occasionally looking up to see him seated there silently with his good hand resting on the sheets, she told him to join her.

“Amanda—I don’t think that’s conducive to you’re…mental well being.” he had been seated with his burned side facing away from her.

“I’ve worked in metal shops and around heavy machinery half my life, I’ve seen a lot worse,” it was enough for him, and she moved over to make space for him on the narrow bunk, curling up at his side, with her hand on his chest. He turned so the pillow obscured the worst of his face from her view, but she thought he had moved to get closer. The space between them was hardly an inch, and she tilted her head up slightly—that was all it took for her lips to make contact with his.

In that contact she knew—she _knew_ now beyond any shadow of a doubt, as he jarringly lifted the mostly-undamaged hand to cradle the side of her face—that whatever love he was capable of, he felt for her, and might have as far back as the _Torrens_. This mess of silicon and carbon, latex and steel was responsible for her life, and she wasn’t going to forget that. The kiss was short, close-lipped out of necessity from his damage, and as she drew away he blinked at her slowly, like he expected her to be gone when he opened his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Don’t say—Oh my God—I never said thank you…Christopher. You saved my life; I thought you were—“ she drew herself close up against his borrowed jumpsuit— _taken off of a Working Joe_ —unable to finish her sentence.

“I’d do it again.” The certainty he said it with scared her; everything about this scared her, but having him this close felt like an anchor to sanity. “I…suppose you must be aware by now…I—“

“I know.”

Arriving back to Luna, she lied through her teeth about who he was; signed false papers saying that all she took from the wreckage was “personal damaged property,” and filed an operating license for a synthetic (medical reasons, she listed on the document), and claimed that she found him as such, damaged in a junkyard and built him out of whatever she found. With fear that she was hurting him, though he promised her she couldn’t, she opened the back of his neck, found the serial number engraved at the top of his spine, took a laser to it, and blurred it out. When the technicians looked him over, not one of the men and women who had routinely serviced him since he first arrived from manufacturing five years earlier were able to tell him apart from any other of his make.

She lied yet again on forged warranty paper work; she said that he had been nearly destroyed during a fire at her at the shop yard. She sent to Earth for a replacement body for him, refusing to leave the workshop where they removed his memory drives for placement in the newer model. As they walked home they didn’t touch, not so much as a discreet brush of her hand against his, but when she locked the door behind them, and started setting the alarm, he immediately asked if he could touch her.

“Yes,” she said, curious as to what he intended. Carefully he pulled off one of her gloves, and held her hand between his own.

“I remember touching you, I remember how you feel, but…forgive me for the sentimentality, this is _technically_ the first time I’ve touched you, with this body at least.” Samuels was nearly pathetic with it, clinging like this to every scrap of affection she gave him. They had been home hardly a week, and while it felt like less than two since rescue, it occurred to her that he didn’t go into cryo, and that the kiss she gave him on the salvage ship would have felt like it was months ago. Despite never sleeping more than a couple feet away from him, she had yet to initiate any farther contact beyond a touch of a hand, or an arm around him at night.

“Are you okay?” she took her hand back, and looped her arms around him; he buried his face in her neck, and held her back, as tight as he could without being afraid he was hurting her.

“I’m not sure. I feel—I’m still not used to that as it is—I _like_ holding you. But this almost painful, or perhaps unsettling. I’m not sure.“

“You can feel things so strongly sometimes that it hurts. Even joy,”

“I was afraid they were going to see something wrong with my drives today, repair me and I wouldn’t be able to—“ he stopped abruptly, pausing as if he actually needed to pause to think. “Amanda I know the past days have been hectic for you, but my memory hasn’t been functioning very well, and I have to ask you: have I told you that I love you yet?” that was all it took, and despite saying to herself she was done crying (she hasn’t yet gone a full day without breaking down), she found herself nearly sobbing into his shirt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—“

“Don’t you _dare_ apologize for it.”

It was the first time in six years someone had said those words to her.

“What can I do?” he asked her softly; still, still all he wanted was what she did. She rose on her toes high enough to kiss him, his new body so uncannily like the last one that she was scared if she ever saw another model walking about she’d mistake it for him.

“What do _you_ want?” she whispered against his lips.

“I want you to…if you don’t, could you _please_ do that again?”

“You don’t have to ask me, not ever,” she made herself smile; she had to stop crying like an idiot. Hesitantly he kissed her this time.

For as warm as he was to the touch, his lips, his tongue, were very cold; their dryness was strange too, though she should have guessed as much. Aside from those though, he felt undeniably _real_.

 

Now she was falling asleep alone for the first time since the cryo back from Sevastopol, feeling neither safe nor in danger. Worse than that, however, was that she wasn’t sure if the quiet, hollow sound of someone sitting down outside against the bedroom door made her feel anything at all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the repetitiveness, I know that nearly everyone who writes on these two has their own variant of how the two of them both managed to survive.
> 
> Longer chapters will follow; this was actually a split one chapter, and the half with his POV will be up possibly later tonight/early tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

Saying that she meant the earth and stars to him was an understatement, but he lived with it. He tried before to explain to her that he was in awe, and mildly afraid, of what he felt for her, but despite the capability to comprehend larger numerical values than any human mathematician could dream of, he couldn’t put it into terms that he could understand. Amanda Ripley was, as unhealthy as it sounded and as hidden from her as he kept it, what gave him the unspeakably abstract feeling of what it means to be alive.

Even when he’d tell her things about the earth and stars she’d try to retreat into herself, brushing off his comments with snide remarks about her own flaws, or mocking him for his romanticisms. Of course he knew she wasn’t perfect; _for example…the concept of human beauty comes from symmetry, and she’s not perfectly symmetrical…she’s…she doesn’t keep to any kind of schedule, she doesn’t tend to her own health in the least, will forget to eat if I don’t remind her, and if she keeps her current hours and projects she’s liable to work herself to death—all for the sake of ‘keeping her mind busy.’_

Still, there was no other human he’d ever met personally who was as strong or heroic as she was. None of them had the same laugh that slowly cracked through a hard shell, like sunlight through rainclouds. Though he couldn’t know for certain, he had a suspicion she was the only one that mumbled nonsense in their sleep in that unique, quiet, melodic whisper. Sometimes even in her unfathomable dreams she would mutter out his name affectionately; in a subconscious landscape where she could have anyone, he was exceptionally moved to know she still was with him.

And his favorite trait of hers, if he was absolutely _forced_ to narrow his list to one item, was that she never knew when to quit. He first came across her file in a mountain of preparatory documents for the _Torrens_ salvage mission. From the first pages of it, he was deeply fascinated by this brilliant young woman and her persistence.

Day in and day out, for five years, civilians would come into the offices, march up to his desk, and demand to talk to higher-ups, managers, the CEO, “Or at least a real damn person,” and never get anywhere. Sometimes people would return once a week, the following month, a few times in a year, but sooner or later they all gave up.

Meanwhile, Ms. Amanda Tei Ripley’s file said she had been in a thorn in the company’s side since she was barely twelve. When she wasn’t in the office she was filling their physical and digital inboxes with her own demanding letters (quite the wordsmith for a child), or anonymous obscene prank mail.

She was caught and arrested by the company when she was sixteen for hacking the computer system, but someone had paid her bail, another foster child who’s name was marked with an asterisk—at the bottom of the page, the note read “DECEASED.” Her discipline record then continued on for a few pages; the only list as long that was he one of foster homes she had been shuttled between until she came of age—at which point she immediately enrolled in a technical college.

Miraculously this brash girl had become somewhat of a genius over the years. She won a competition, and some scholarship money, by building an old-fashioned fuel-injection engine from scratch: even casting her own motor head.

Samuels grinned slightly, finding himself rooting for her even before he finished reading her novella-length company file. A degree in mechanical engineering, several prestigious jobs, all with constant trips to Weyland-Yutani’s earth offices. Only recently had she relocated here to Luna, the place her mother spent her earliest years, working in an independent auto/hover shop for a fraction of what she was making at her previous job.

It was so _human_. The hard-hearted woman must have been so lonely and so hopeful that she’d find her mother (who was also, according to her file, her last living family member) that she came all the way out here. A girl like that could have had her choice of careers on the Mars terraforming projects, or run her own station dock on Ceres, not to mention the outer-system roles she could have taken on.

It was true that he was the one to bring her to the attention of his direct supervisor, a new kid, barely out of graduate school, skittish and unsure of himself, one Gary Decker. Not long in the company, he had no idea about how much of a nuisance she was around the office, but Decker found it fitting. He thought it would make the company look good to invite a grieving family member on the salvage mission. Samuels thanked him with a polite, business-dealing smile.

“Then someone should go track her down, see if she even wants to go,” Decker said, already distracted by the rest of the papers Samuels (and two other synths of his same make) had dropped on his desk, trying to keep them separate.

“Her file lists her most recent known place of employment; if you approve, I can go and give her the offer.” Decker shook his head at him.

“Would you be offended if I needed you guys to wear…pins or different colored ties or something? I don’t know how the last supervisor told you all apart.”

“Sorry?”

“Oh—uh…you are aware that you and the other three androids look exactly alike, aren’t you?” Decker looked nearly apologetic, and more than a little intimidated.

“Of course. But you’ll find that we all sign our work with our unique serial numbers.”

“Okay—thanks.” Decker paged through Ripley’s file a moment before looking at the clock. “Why don’t you go and find her?”

Samuels by nature could not be surprised by anything, however this was not a situation he had dealt with before.

“If I’m to leave the campus during office hours, I need a clearance to do so.” Decker looked at him confused.

“Um, okay, is that a paper or a badge or—“

“A call down to the main lobby should be sufficient.”

“I can do that. Right. So go find the girl and I’ll have one of the other guys here prep her boarding paperwork. The _Torrens_ takes off in two days, she’ll have to make her mind up _today_.”

“Understood, sir.” Samuels gave an affirmative nod, and turned to leave.

“Samuels, I’m sorry, I don’t know which one of them you are, but you don’t have to call me sir. None of the people—none of the humans here call me that. ‘Gary’ or ‘hey kid,’ works fine.” Considering how new Decker was, Samuels was morbidly interested in how quickly he’d adjust, and how long it would take before the boy no longer bothered to tell which of the synthetics was talking to him,

“My serial number and name are on the papers,” he replied more curtly than needed, “Gary.”

Normally, he would have brought a briefcase with information on the journey, clearance paperwork, and even an initial waiver form, but given the uniqueness of the situation, he thought he’d only try talking to her for today. It was the easiest way to explain to himself _why_ he had forgotten his things at his desk, as he had never forgotten anything before. This wasn’t anything strange, it was only a routine attempt to recruit someone for a mission. Routine.

01100011 01101100 01101111 01110011 01110101 01110010 01100101

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay; I've been working on the first two chapters to make them...presentable, and then this was a nightmare to finish and to edit for some reason. Dialogue isn't easy when you literally never talk to anyone.
> 
> Thank you guys for your continued readership, having a little following keeps me motivated to stick to a schedule (or at least seriously try to).
> 
> In other news, if any of you would like to beta read, message me here or on tumblr at @annabellioncourt because editing my own work has never been a strong point.


	4. Chapter 4

 

“ _Maybe there will be some…closure for you_.”

Amanda had walked away, leaving him standing there in the employee break room with a cooling cup of coffee on the counter. There was an ancient deck of cards on the table in the corner, laid out in a half-played game of solitaire; the box was beside them, with a marker labeling ‘A. RIP. DON’T TOUCH.’ The lockers along the opposite wall had hand-written mock call-signs on their nameplates, while the one on the end merely read ‘A. Ripley.’

The woman’s file said she had just turned twenty-six, but between her lankiness, her lack of make-up, and the way her expressions melted from hard to vulnerable when he mentioned her mother, she seemed little more than a girl. She could do well with a few meals that weren’t coffee, and perhaps a friend—judging by the break room, Amanda was the only person in the shop working on her own.

When had first arrived there, shop workers were grouped off, some handing over tools to engineers and mechanics under or on top of the smaller star ships and land speeders, even a few hovercraft models from the early 2100’s. Everyone there seemed to know everyone else, and while the supervisor was able to point out Amanda to him immediately, there wasn’t any familiarity exposed in his off-hand manner, “ _She’s welding over in the back on her own_.”

Giving one last look over the evidence of her loner nature, he followed after her back out onto the work floor.

“Amanda, I apologize for rushing you in such a…heavy decision, but if you want to go then you’re needed at the office for paperwork preferably by closing tonight,” he knew that his voice was deviating from detached to sympathetic, which was something that was too soft to have been programmed into a business model. “I can even bring the documents to you at the end of the day if you—“

“Don’t try to act like you’re doing this for me. Look me in the eye and tell me that this isn’t for some legal reason, or the company trying to buy my silence… again.” She turned on her heel to face him, bringing her well closer to him than he figured she must have been trying for. Amanda Ripley met his eyes coldly “I don’t need your help.”

“I won’t lie to you,” though he _could_ lie unless ordered to give the truth, “My superior thought that having you on the trip would be good publicity. The Nostromo case is a bit of a black mark on the company’s record,” she scoffed at his word choice, “and in hopes that you’ll no longer…” Samuels couldn’t technically be at a loss for words, yet there wasn’t a way that he could phrase the idea without insulting her.

“…Be a pain in their ass?” she offered.

“More or less,” he smiled at her, unable to help it; he must have done something right though because her hard-set grimace turned up at the corners of her mouth, almost resembling friendliness.

“I’m off work at five; I’ll talk to my boss and come by later. I have…Jesus, I’ll have to close my lease and—wait when do you leave?”

“Pardon? Do you mean the crew of the _Torrens_ or do you—“

“You. When do you leave the office?” _he_ was finished with his duties for the day and was not expected back in his office, but the prospect of the better part of two hours with her over paperwork was enough to keep him there, even off the clock.

“I hardly ever leave the Weyland-Yutani campus, Ms. Ripley.” She considered it, and nodded. He wasn’t sure if she was aware that he stayed in the Synthetics wing: the military style barracks for recharging and partial power mode were there to avoid the appearance of a dead body lying in an office or at a desk: Weyland-Yutani, always aiming for the illusion of reality.

“You can call me Amanda. Um, I guess I’ll see you around six or six-thirty?” it caught him as off-guard as anything could, that her brief expression of consideration was on his use of her surname rather than his inside joke with himself.

“Alright…Amanda,” he knew he was smiling at her for too happily for too long, and even the highest level of company protocol for behavior around superiors didn’t call for the slight bow at the waist he gave before turning to leave, with an awkward sense that he had bungled a chance at something.

What that chance was for, he didn’t exactly know, or want to dwell on.

 

A wind-chime alarm clock sound brought him out of partial power mode. Amanda had to replace her blaring old-fashioned bell-topped clock with it after returning, or else risk waking up with half a heart attack from the harsh noise. Samuels didn’t forget that he had drifted off with Tolstoy open on his lap, sitting in the reading chair by the wider of the two windows in the main room. Somehow this was more surreal than waking up next to the woman that he could hear in the other room, opening and closing the dresser drawers.

He rose from his chair, straightened his shirt from the day before, and walked across to the kitchen area to start the coffee machine for her, and make breakfast for her—argument or not, he wasn’t going to see her leave the apartment hungry. Eggs were still frying on the stove when he heard the front door slam shut. He was almost more impressed with Amanda’s stealth than he was that she left without caffeine.

The ghost of the fear that whatever mockery of a relationship Amanda had had with him was through began to rise in the back of his mind, and he opened another program, and then another, as many as he could—the white noise didn’t drown out the thought entirely, but it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now back to our typical Thursday update schedule.
> 
> PS: anyone who's comfortable editing M/E material (more on the M side than the E side) shoot me a message here or on tumblr (@annabellioncourt) because I'm...99% ace, so I'm not sure WHAT EVEN I'm writing and could use a pair of more worldly eyes giving it a look-thru before I post it.

**Author's Note:**

> @lucky--star on tumblr and I came up with the idea of them getting a cat, based off of a post I'll link to at the end. I want to give credit to the blogs that made it, but if I link it before the story's over the stupid gag that I wrote THIS ENTIRE FIC FOR will be ruined
> 
>  
> 
> Also that is indeed real binary code I used in the page break.


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